


love, baby, love (it's written all over your face)

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Celebrations, M/M, Smut, softness!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: "Love you. Loads. Like, so much that it hurts. You're incredible," Jordan says.Virgil goes all pretty and pink, flushed with both the warmth and the endearment that Jordan is showing him. "Shut up, you," he mutters, sounding exasperated, although he does put his hand on Jordan's cheek to kiss him. "If I'd have known winning the league would make you this happy, I'd have done it for us last season."
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	love, baby, love (it's written all over your face)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know if u guys know this but we won the league!?!?!!?!!?!?!?!?!??! the celebrations aren't over yet so here's another one! i rly hope u enjoy xx
> 
> happy reading!! feedback always appreciated, love u loads xxx

Jordan looks over at Virgil. Takes in the dizzying smile on his face, and feels it spread to his own mouth as all the oxygen leaves his lungs. The younger man is counting down the seconds, lips moving to shape around the numbers. Jordan can’t even bring himself to look.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

This is it – the moment Jordan has been waiting for since he was twenty years old and signing his name next to the little red liver bird on his contract. It’s really happening.

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

He reaches over and takes Virgil’s hand, slots their fingers together like he always does. Virgil doesn’t even look up, too busy focusing on the screen in front of him, but he does squeeze Jordan’s fingers gently. Jordan wants to tell him that he’ll get square eyes if he keeps staring like that, but he doesn’t quite have it in him.

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

Adam is on his feet across the table, arms outstretched and shifting his weight from foot to foot. The anticipation is so thick that Jordan can _taste_ it. It’s going to happen. He’s not dreaming.

_One._

The whole courtyard erupts and Virgil jumps to his feet, dragging Jordan up with him. Drags him in for a tight hug, so tight he can barely breathe, but he doesn’t even care. He holds on for dear life and treasures the moment when Virgil laughs, breathless and right next to his ear. He pulls away only far enough that he can meet Jordan’s glittering gaze, and grins.

“We did it, Jordan! We’re the fucking champions!” Virgil exclaims, and Jordan feels the tears start to fall.

.

Jordan finds Virgil away from the rest of the group. He's sitting on a little couch in the corner, where it's dark and the air con hits quite nicely, but the bright light from his phone is making his face glow. He's smiling at the screen, at whoever he's texting. It's sweet. Jordan has missed him over the half an hour they've been separated.

"Hi," Jordan says, dropping onto the other end of the couch and stretching his legs out. He kicks his trainers off and places his feet in Virgil's lap, smile stretching even wider when the younger man's hand automatically wraps his around his ankle without looking up from his phone. "Who you talking to?"

"Just Jennee," Virgil says. His voice is hoarse from all the shouting but still lovely and soft, in the way that it always sounds when he talks about people he loves. His mum, his brother, his sister -- Jordan, except that selfishly, he thinks that he has his own special tone. Virgil locks his phone and slides it into his pocket, finally looking up at Jordan. "Is that champagne? You never drink. Is it alcoholic?"

"Yes, I am allowed one, aren't I?" Jordan says with a pout. He clutches the glass to his chest and then takes a sip. Virgil’s eyes light up and his thumb strokes lightly over the hard point of Jordan's ankle. "It's not every day you become champions of England, is it?"

"Oh, I'm not complaining - I've just never seen you drunk," Virgil says. He presses his thumb hard into the bone and grins when Jordan kicks at him, tickling the sole of his foot to make him stop. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and sticks his tongue out when Jordan rolls his eyes. "Who knows - might be an enjoyable experience for me…"

"You'll have to see if you can play your cards right, won't you?" Jordan asks with a smirk. Virgil laughs, head thrown back and beautiful, and he doesn’t complain when Jordan shifts so that they're pressed together. It's quite nice, being tucked underneath his arm and looking up at his glowing face. It's even nicer to stretch up and give him a kiss. "Love you. Loads. Like, so much that it hurts. You're incredible."

Virgil goes all pretty and pink, flushed with both the warmth and the endearment that Jordan is showing him. "Shut up, you," he mutters, sounding exasperated, although he does put his hand on Jordan's cheek to kiss him. "If I'd have known winning the league would make you this happy, I'd have done it for us last season."

It's Jordan's turn to laugh this time. He feels all light headed and giddy, although he's pretty sure that's the champagne, and he pinches Virgil's thigh gently before clambering to his feet and holding his hand out. When Virgil doesn't take it, he pouts, wiggling his fingers.

"Come on!" He huffs. "I want to dance."

"Um," Virgil says dumbly. There's a frown on his face and he looks very, very confused. "Do I need to remind you that you can't dance, Jordan? And neither can I."

" _And_? It's a celebration, V! I don't care if I'm making a fool of myself," Jordan says. He takes matters into his own hands and grabs Virgil's wrist, using the grip to pull him up. The younger man stumbles into Jordan's body and steadies himself with hands on his hips, stealing one more kiss, and then another. "We're going to dance, whether you like it or not. Everyone else is dancing."

"Fine," Virgil sighs, acting like he's long suffering as Jordan drags him onto the dance floor. It's just a show, to be honest, a big dramatic show, because god knows Jordan will more than make up for it when they finally go back up to their room to sleep (or not, as the case may be). "One dance. And you're definitely not having any more champagne if this is what it does to you."

"Yeah, alright," Jordan says, raising his eyebrows. He drags them both into the very middle of the dance floor and Virgil's hands go to his hips instinctively, swaying in time to the music. "But that means you don't get to take part in our private celebrations later."

Jordan puts his hands on Virgil's cheeks and kisses the outraged look right off of his face.

It's a worthy compromise.

.

Jordan looks at his reflection in the mirror. His chest is flushed, from the drinks and the warmth of the night and just generally being so happy he could die, and his hair is a mess. There's a permanent grin etched onto his face, and he knows that it's not going to go away any time soon. He's just so fucking _happy_.

Virgil is on the other side of the door, lounging on the bed (and probably on his phone, because he never seems to put it down). He has no idea that what's about to hit him, and it makes him even bolder.

He opens the door slowly. The windows are wide open but even without any clothes on, Jordan still feels warm, and he squares his shoulders as he steps around the partition wall and into Virgil's view. The younger man's jaw drops slightly, and then his phone is finally fucking abandoned. 

"Oh, right," Virgil says, sitting up against the headboard. It's so late that it's getting light again, so he can see all of Jordan in his glory. He looks _hungry_ as his gaze travels down Jordan's body. "Is this what you meant by celebrations part two?"

"Of course," Jordan says, taking a few slow steps towards the bed. The buzz of the champagne is making him feel even more confident, and he stops just out of reach, watches Virgil's fingers twitch against his own thigh. He's hard already, the front of his shorts straining, and Jordan smirks. "Think we're well deserving, don't you?"

"Definitely," Virgil says, nodding quickly. He stretches out and grabs Jordan's wrists, pulling him onto the bed until he's straddling Virgil's hips, and places both hands on the bare skin of his thighs. "Changed my mind, by the way. Drinking suits you."

Jordan laughs, head thrown back, and reaches over to the bedside table where there's half a bottle of champagne waiting. He picks it up and swigs it, before placing it back down carefully. " _You_ suit me," he murmurs, leaning down so that their noses are brushing. Virgil goes cross eyed trying to look at him, and Jordan pities him enough to give him a kiss, deep and drawn out.

When he pulls away, Virgil is tracing the outlines of his tattoo with the edge of his thumbnail, and it makes Jordan flush from the chest right to the tops of his ears. His dick stands to attention, too. "Can't wait to see the next one," Virgil says. His voice is all husky, so at least Jordan knows he's not the only one that feels like this.

"You gonna come with me?" Jordan asks, breathless when Virgil's fingers inch up his thigh. They move slightly to the left and brush over the coarse curls at the base of his dick and he grins, all teeth bared. "Sit with me while I get it done? Hold my hand?"

"If you want," Virgil hums, stretching up to give Jordan a kiss. His other hand slides around to rest on the curve of his arse, fingers digging into the muscle painfully. All Jordan does is smile and shift closer, until their chests are pressed together. "Might not be very appropriate, though. I probably won't be able to keep my hands off you."

"That’s no different from every other day," Jordan laughs, catching Virgil's mouth for a kiss. He gets a hand between them and tugs the hem of his shirt, fingers sliding underneath it to press against the warmth of his stomach. "You're wearing far too much." 

Virgil hums, pressing his thumbs into the sharp points of Jordan's hips before he pulls away properly. He curls his fingers around the bottom of his shirt and rips it over his head, tossing it onto the chair near the bed. Jordan can't even bring himself to care about all the creases. He bucks hips up so Jordan lifts himself and he can slide his shorts and boxers down his thighs, kicking them off and to the side.

"That better for you, your majesty?" Virgil asks, gently mocking. He waits until Jordan has settled back down on his thighs and then drags him in for a kiss, two fingers under his chin to keep him in place.

"That's premier league winning captain to you, thank you very much," Jordan grumbles, but it's entirely playful. He nips at Virgil's bottom lip, sharp enough to make the younger man hiss slightly. "Jesus Christ, are you going to get on with it or not? I hope I don't have to wait this long to lift the trophy."

"Cheeky little shit," Virgil mutters, slapping his palm against the roundness of Jordan's arse. It stings but the pain just turns him on even more, dick leaking as he presses another kiss to Virgil's mouth. Virgil pulls away and reaches down the side of the bed, where there's a little wash bag with lube. 

(When they arrived and he put the bag down there with full, proper intent, Jordan just stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Virgil huffed, pulling Jordan close by the belt loops. "I know what I'm after. Do you?"

He's not complaining about it now.)

Virgil slicks his fingers up quickly, like he can’t bear to wait any longer, and rubs the pads of them against Jordan’s hole. He flinches away because they’re cold but then bears back down desperately, rutting like he’s never been fucked before. God knows he’s been ready since the first sip of champagne went to his head – he’s pretty sure he’s a slutty drunk, and it’s a good job that he’s got Virgil.

He’s still loose from this morning, when Virgil pressed him against the tiled wall in the shower and fucked him before he’d even said good morning. He’d turned around afterwards, looped his arms around Virgil’s neck and let him kiss him awake properly, and then when he’d asked what all that was about, Virgil shrugged, eyes half lidded, and murmured, _it’s going to be a good day_.

How right he was.

Virgil pushes two of his fingers in quickly. There’s barely any resistance and Jordan shifts, spreads his legs even wider so Virgil’s fingers shift even deeper, and he can’t help the little whine that rips up his throat. It’s so good but still not enough, and like he knows, Virgil adds a third without Jordan even needing to ask.

“That better?” He asks, pressing wet, messy kisses up the column of Jordan’s throat. The air conditioning is on but it’s still not enough in the sticky, thick heat of the night, but Virgil chases the beads of sweat that roll down his skin. He’s showing no interest in moving his hand and actually giving Jordan what he wants, so he decides to take it for himself, and grinds back down on Virgil’s hand desperately. “God, you’re a needy little baby, aren’t you?”

“Er, I’ve had a long, difficult season,” Jordan says. He knows he’s pouting but he doesn’t care, hips moving steadily against Virgil’s hand. He doesn’t really feel anything other than full until Virgil hooks the tips of his fingers and then they finally hit his prostate, and he stutters out a gasp. “I just want – _fuck_ – I want to get pleasantly drunk, have a good fuck, and then sleep for twelve hours. I deserve that.” 

“A good fuck, hm?” Virgil asks. He sounds slightly distracted, but that’s probably because he’s pressing his fingers against Jordan’s prostate without letting up. It’s almost unbearable, except for the way it’s making his dick pulse painfully. It’s an incredible feeling. “Where are you going to find that?” 

“If you know anyone who’s suitable and up for it, feel free to let me know,” Jordan says, baring his teeth in a grin. He can feel that familiar heat starting to coil in his belly and he curls his fingers around Virgil’s wrist, pausing any movement. “I’m going to come if you carry on.” 

“Suppose it’s up to me to give you a good fuck then,” Virgil sighs dramatically. He pulls his fingers out and takes his time slicking up his dick, like he knows that Jordan is more than ready and is dragging out just to piss him off. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing hot and heavy against Jordan’s hole, and then pauses. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Jordan hisses, curling his hand around Virgil’s shoulder and digging his fingers into the thin skin there. He wants it to hurt, wants to leave little red crescent moon shaped marks there. Wants Virgil to stand with his back to the mirror in the morning, and look at them, run the tips of his fingers over them. “Get on with it, _fuck_.” 

Virgil tuts disapprovingly, but he places both of his hands on Jordan’s hips and guides him down slowly. It feels so much better than his fingers did, stretching him even more and sliding even deeper, and Jordan stutters out a contented little sigh. It burns, but in the best way. In the way that he wants to feel every day for the rest of his life – even if that does make him sound like a bit of a slut.

“So, is this the first time you’ve had sex with a Premier League winner?” Jordan asks conversationally when Virgil has bottomed out. Virgil rolls his eyes and pinches Jordan’s hip almost painfully, so the older man pouts. “What!? I’m just asking.” 

“We are not talking about shagging other people while I am inside you,” Virgil huffs. The word shagging trips off his tongue because it doesn’t fit with his accent, but it’s actually (and, considering the meaning of the word, probably controversially) quite sweet. It makes Jordan smile. “But for the record, yes. You are the only Premier League champion I’ve ever had sex with, and I intend for it to stay that way.” 

“How sweet,” Jordan coos, pinching at Virgil’s cheek. Virgil bats him away but he smiles bashfully regardless, and pushes up to press kiss after kiss after kiss to Jordan's mouth. It's-- a moment. That's the only way Jordan can describe it. It's a moment he's going to remember forever. "Now, are you going to get on with it or not?" 

"If you insist," Virgil says, with a drawn out long-suffering kind of sigh. He still curls his palms around the underneath of Jordan's hips and guides him up, until only the head of his dick is still inside, and then drags him back down. It's good, but not quite enough, so when he tries again, he angles his hips differently. 

That one works. His dick hits Jordan's prostate square on and a breathy little moan tears up his throat, fingernails scrabbling at Virgil's back. It must be painful but he just grins, barely paying any attention as he sets up a steady rhythm.

The look on Virgil’s face is incredible. He’s staring up at Jordan with wide, awed eyes, like he hung the moon and the stars and all the planets in the sky. Jordan looks down at him and feels _loved_. It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last, but this one is special. He curves his palms around Virgil’s cheeks to tilt his head up, and kisses him.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Virgil whispers, mouth sliding along the line of Jordan’s jaw. He pulls away just far enough that he can tuck his face into Jordan’s neck, breathing warm and shaky against the thin skin there, and wraps his arms tight around his back. “I love you so much, J. I’m the luckiest man on the planet.”

“Give over,” Jordan huffs, pausing his movements to reach over and grab the bottle of champagne. He takes a long sip and then holds the bottle to Virgil’s mouth, tilting it slowly. He moves it too far and some champagne fizzes out of his mouth, over his chin and down the line of his throat. Jordan chases the trail of it and licks it right off his skin. 

“No, I mean it,” Virgil says. He waits until Jordan has put the bottle safely back on the table and then grabs his hips and starts moving him again, drawing breathy little moans from deep in Jordan’s lungs. “You’re so special. And not just to me – to _everyone_. Look what you’ve done for this club. You put everyone else first time and time again, the fans, your teammates, even the staff. It’s paid off now, Jordan. You brought it home, the thing that everyone’s wanted for thirty years. You brought it home and you finally get to enjoy yourself.” 

“I always enjoy myself when I’m with you,” Jordan says truthfully, but there’s tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he really believes Virgil’s words. 

“Good. That’s all I want,” Virgil murmurs, pressing a messy kiss to the hinge of Jordan’s jaw. He picks up the pace, sparking deliciously against Jordan’s prostate every time he slides in. This might just be the best sex he’s ever had. “Because you’re special to everyone else, but you’re _everything_ to me. You’re my legs when I feel like I can’t carry on. My heart when my chest feels empty. My eyes, when I don’t want to see what’s right in front of me. You’re the only thing that keeps me going sometimes, Jordan. To see you lift that trophy is going to be very special.” 

“You big softie,” Jordan whispers. He takes Virgil’s face in his hands and tilts it up to give him a kiss, soft and deep. Licks into his mouth, brushing sparks of electricity against his tongue, and then gasps when Virgil’s fingers curl around his dick. “Ditto, by the way. I love you.” 

Virgil smiles against his cheek and starts to jack his fist. Up and down, grip tight, and then he twists his wrist in the way that Jordan likes. Thumbs across the head, smearing through the precome there. Jordan stutters out a sigh.

“Gonna come soon,” he murmurs lazily. Virgil doesn’t reply, just picks up the pace of both his thrusts and his hand, and that heat burns bright in Jordan’s belly. Squeezes tight until his muscles are tense, and he digs his nails into Virgil’s shoulders, pressing up close to him. Virgil wraps his other arm tight around his back so he can hold him as he goes through it.

His orgasm hits him in waves. Ripples through his entire body, turning his spine into liquid as he comes. He doesn’t even know what kind of noises he’s making – he’s pretty sure it’s Virgil’s name, long and drawn out and broken on a moan, head thrown back. Virgil follows soon after, hips frozen and hands gripping Jordan close, breathing harshly against his chest.

They hold each other as they come down from the high. Soft hands and warm skin, wet, swollen mouths and Virgil’s bright eyes. They’ve had plenty of sex before but Jordan has never quite felt like this afterwards, like all of his insides have turned soft whenever he looks at Virgil. He’s never felt like a champion.

“Shower?” Virgil asks, resting his cheek against Jordan’s pec. It’s weird to feel like the taller of the pair but also Jordan loves the way Virgil’s head fits under his chin, and he traces delicate little patterns up the bare skin at the back of his neck just to keep him there.

“No,” Jordan murmurs, letting his eyes slip shut. He’s still high on the adrenaline but even despite the thick wall of it, the exhaustion has started to slip through the cracks. It’s been a long day. An incredible one – maybe the best one of his life – but still long. He wouldn’t change it for the world, though. “It’s almost five am. Sleep now. Shower tomorrow.”

“Alright. Whatever captain says goes, I suppose,” Virgil says, teasing in every way possible. He lifts Jordan off of his lap and arranges his heavy limbs so that he’s laying down, on his side facing Virgil and comfortable. He’s barely letting on that he’s tired, except for the slow blinking. He’d probably carry on partying if Jordan let him.

But also, Jordan knows that Virgil would rather be here, in this bed, with Jordan. _This over everything else_ , he’d once told Jordan, after the long celebrations when they won the Champions League. This over everything else, and he’d never, even gone back on it. 

Jordan opens his eyes again when Virgil’s fingers delicately brush his hair out of his face. He smiles when Virgil squeezes his cheek gently, and accepts the kiss that Virgil offers, and then tucks himself right up to his side. It’s too hot for it, really, but Jordan wants to feel his skin.

“G’night, champ,” Jordan murmurs, pressing a kiss against the thin skin that stretches over Virgil’s ribs. It’s the closest place he can reach, and he doesn’t want to move for a while.

“Goodnight, babe,” Virgil replies. His big hand is resting on Jordan’s hip and he buries a kiss in the hair on the crown of his head. It’s so routine that it hurts. It’s _normal_ – the best normal Jordan has ever had. “I love you.”

Those three words make Jordan feel like a winner more than trophies ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
